Incoming

This is the view I see in the evening from the family room. Usually Rocky the dog is lying on the carpet or the chair in the upper top. The little table holds the books, ipod, watch, tea or whatever is needed at the time as I sit. Here I have the cracked Ipod touch with a photo of Nathaniel.

Scott's Testimony

Scott Hamilton gave his testimony. Shown are Tony Register, Christina Taylor, Vickie and Ken Bowen, Ken being instrumental in Scott's coming to Christ. Scott is the bass player for the 7 Days Band.

Dedication Sunday

This was from Sunday in Christ's Fellowships makeshift church, with Russell dedicating the newborns from left to right Nathaniel, Abrielle and Abigail. Shown from left to right are Landon and Amber Stokes, Tyler and Audra, Elder Tony and Breya Register and Pastor Russell Taylor.

Turkey Trail

Here I sit at Latitude 30.310612, Longitude 82.465385 for those interested in knowing where I was this past Saturday. This is a nice palmetto field recovering from a forest fire a few years back. The forest roads are fairly dry and thus the driving fine. I was in four-wheel drive only through the areas water covered the road, which was only in two places. Ticks though were plentiful.

Wood Duck Box

On the trip up to the cypress hammock at Ocean Pond Saturday, I came upon this Wood Duck box lying in the weeds in disrepair. I took it off the rusted pole and loaded it in the vehicle. I am going to restore it and return it to Ocean Pond soon.

Insect Inside

Can the Oak tree, my brethren, bear pine cones?

False Fruit

Can the oak tree, my brethren, bear pine cones?

We find in the budding of the shoot
That all this time the soil was bitter
And thus the hidden root
Revealed at last the poison fruit.

You sprouted and raised the limbs
We said my what a hearty tree!
But then came the thorns upon the stems
Pricking all who reached for thee.

Now you grow in groves of gall
You insist the fruit is sweet
But where the poison seeds fall
Are not dead worms at your feet?

Cut the bitter root from the bitter soil
A good fruit will be the reward for your toil.

Captive Pursuit

by john clare

Slipping down the slope I quickly drink
Scanning down river an ibis flushes above the rapids
I scurry and lay in the palmetto along the bank
Trembling and trusting I am safely hid.

To be relentlessly pursued I did not choose
A rebellious slave fleeing captivity
Too long the chased nature to lose
Shivering amid the ticks to remain free.

How easily my Master could capture
But he let's me run with abandon
Living wild in this hostile nature
My chain trail so visible in the soft sand.

And this captivity of which I flee
Is the very thing that so draws me.

Garland Lads, Poetic Lasses

by john clare

We know their part within the play is often small,
And they do not seek the encore as the curtains fall,
But that keeps them not from doing their best,
To say their single line when comes the time.
And well we know when upon that starting line,
Though valiant they run, the garland crown they seldom wear,
Yet it quenches not the hope in every lad of flowing hair.
In tears they run to our side as to other victor's go the crown,
We cheer the brave effort for the forgotten line not found.
The sun soon sets, the night finds them still upon the stage,
We yield the field before the reading of the final page.
What of the lads rounding the turn of the cinder way?
What of the lasses in the wings waiting to close the play?
Have we brought these little ones this far to falter?
Do we offer them the consolation of an empty altar?
Pray the fair haired lads run to the Lord's finish line,
Pray the lasses find the practiced, poetic lines so divine.
Quench not the hope in the young hearts first gleam,
Give them His holy victor's stand for their dream.
And together we shall build for them a step to God,
And to God the lads shall run with armor fully shod,
And to God the lasses shall speak the grand gospel lines,
Bearing the good news marching onward toward Zion.

Micco Leaf

This is what keeps me excited every day that I am blessed to be able and get out and photograph what lies before me. There are certain areas I like to return to time and time again, each time is as if I was there for the first time. Nothing is ever the same, never boring, which does not register in my vocabulary. I have been plugging away with photography over forty years, beginning back in high school with my high school physics teacher selling me his Yashica JP 35mm camera with a 135mm screw mount lens and a Sekonic meter.
There is a facebook friend who said he has been in landscape photography three years now and his new website was about to take off. I quipped, you must be using rocket fuel, for after forty years, I have yet to take off, I must be using diesel. Experts are not measured in the number of years, often by the breaks they get, or the money, but mostly, the talent. This particular photographer seems to possess all.
But, back to the blessed. When I was out at Alligator Lake the wind was strong and the clouds were rolling rapidly past, a constantly changing sky, light and shadow. I spotted this particular cloud sailing through past that resembled a leaf. It was fortunate I was near this tree of dried leaves that mimicked the cloud. I rapidly set the camera and took several exposures. It was not until reviewing that I noticed the pattern of the cloud and how it looked as if it was coming out of the tree.
I titled it Micco Leaf after much thinking what to call it. Micco is chief in Seminole. Thus, the chief leaf. These are the unexpected surprises I look forward to when I go out.

Of One Prey

by john clare

In the pursuit of that which lives to elude and blend
We must take on the mantle of the prey
To know the wakening movement come breaking day
The tabernacle where the silent vespers begin.

 Thinking I've become one within the reeds
I feebly focus on the frost covered lines
Shivering not from a cold down the spine
But the form of an unseen one that heeds.

Peering I touch the shutter and say it is so
As I prepare to become one with this prey
The journey long consummating here this day
She draws near from the mists rising slow.

 So slow I slip the misty veil over my eyes,
Too late, she knows my intention and off she flies.